Paved With Good Intentions
by Reyavie
Summary: Blood magic carries all sort of consequences. And it always, always requires a sacrifice.


_AN - Reply to the Consequences Challenge from CMDA. Prompts: The Mad Hermit, Tarohne (characters), Genitivi's house (place) and "What is the password?" (question)._

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Need had brought Tarohne to the edge of Denerim. It was dangerous, of course. As an apostate, any place with more than a couple of Templars would be a deathtrap. She had thought the amount of people would keep her safe though, like a needle in a haystack. In theory, it was perfect.

In practice, everything had gone wrong.

The market had been filled to the brink with people. It was a busy Saturday morning and no one would notice a woman in tatters any more than they would notice a brick out of place. She had even smiled a little when people accepted her silver for a piece of bread. It was liberty, to have clear air above her – as clear as the great city went, of course – to be surrounded by people after the suffocation and empty walls of the Tower. Beautiful. Freeing.

But he had come, out of nowhere, out of the shadows and his hand was tight against her mouth just as the magic which suffused her very being. Darkness followed, as quickly as the night.

When Tarohne woke, she was inside a building. The room was fairly simple. A wooden table at a corner, a bed opposite to it. There were a couple of paintings up on the walls, all of them with symbols alien even to her who had spent half her life inside a library. She had been placed directly opposed to the door. A little tug at her wrists allowed her to feel the heavy ropes which bound her, the same ropes which were connected to her feet and kept her in place. She tried to ignore how similar the position would be to how a pig was prepared for slaughter.

"Ah. She wakes. She wakes and sees herself safe, don't you see?" The laughter which followed was hysterical and scared her further against the wall. Fear itched its way through her spine, crawled all the way to her throat. Tarohne tried to scream but found it impossible. Someone had covered her mouth with fabric, tight enough to keep her from doing anything bar breathing. Her eyes opened impossibly as she stared at her captor.

His hair was grey, small in stature if only because of the heavy hunch which he sported. Deep wrinkles covered the weathered face, light eyes blinking in some unnamed joy. The clothes he wore had once been of fine cut and beautiful fabric. Time and savage attacks had turned it into little more than rags, barely kept together by rough patches and stitching. If the heavy aura of magic around him didn't convince her he had been her attacker, the staff upon his back or the glyph underneath her feet certainly did the trick.

It made little to diminish her fear.

"Let me go. Please, let me go." The fabric on her mouth kept her voice muffled. Which captor would need it though? He smiled again, crazily, happily, like it was all a huge game.

"What's the password?"

_Please? Help me? Templars? _Dear Maker, she didn't know. Was this punishment for escaping? Was the Maker showing her she should have accepted her fate ages ago, one moment before smashing her phylactery and jumping outside?

"No, no, no, no, you are worrying too much. It's alright, all alright, you are safe and will be safe. I just need something. A little. You didn't bring them to me, did you? You don't seem one of them. You don't smell the same."

The old man came closer – with each step she turned more against the wall, struggled against the glyph which kept her trapped and helpless. Even her magic refused to rise, apparently raging against his and failing to do anything.

"It'll be fast, you see." He had a knife. A dagger. What did it matter, he was armed, a blood mage. A curdling scream escaped her throat only to die against the cloth. "I need only a little."

He didn't explain what. The dagger freed one of her hands, merely one, and was placed against her palm. A lone cut was made on her palm even as she trashed and tried pulling away. It didn't matter. He repeated the same procedure on his and, soon enough, cut was against cut, palm against palm and magic filled her blood.

At first it felt clean. Pure. Like a stream connecting both mages, neither starting on her or on him, a circle without beginning or end. Then it changed, it sped up, turned and twisted, overtaking her mind with the strength of a small hurricane. It turned and turned until it stopped. Sound filled her ears. A little like a tub of water emptying.

The spell ended, the cloth was pulled away from her mouth as she blinked. Tarohne said nothing. In fact, all the wish to scream seemed to have been sucked out of her, like one would rip out a bad spirit. Had he helped her? It was always good to lack fear.

"There we go."

The eyes in front of hers had lost the edge of lunacy. They stared down at her like an eagle's, sharp and focused and strong like a savage animal. He even looked younger. Still rugged and grey, a little short and hunched; his skin looked clearer though and the soft smile rounded the picture together.

"You were uncommonly grounded. Thank you."

Grounded? Grounded. Like trees, trees were uncommonly grounded; tall, deep roots only they were all grounded so that couldn't be uncommon, could it?

A door opened, steps resounding and coming closer. Tarohne briefly acknowledged the timeworn face, deep wrinkles setting his eyes back, a kind old expression she would trust without a thought.

"Ah, Genitivi."

Would trust, would have trusted, should never trust. The man looked at her and shook his head, leveling a faintly disapproving glance at the other male. Not the outright hate he deserved. Did he now? Why did he deserve hatred? The girl frowned deeply, trying to grip her wayward thoughts in a useless attempt. They fled underneath her fingers, slipped away every time she felt she was almost there, almost close to answer.

"I've already told you not to do that here."

The man shrugged, giving no reply. It seemed inconsequential to do so.

"Hm. You should hide by the Brecilian forest," the newcomer continued. "I should have the ashes soon; you'll be fine."

_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._ A giggle escaped her lips, echoed by her sister's against her ear.

"Sounds like the best idea for now, brother." A little nod by the mage, more coherency than ever. "Send me someone if I disappear. Someone helpful."

"Will do. And her?"

"Sacrifices are always needed. Poor girl." His fingers played a melody against her strands. Tarohne closed her eyes, almost mewling against the caress. "I will get her on her way to Gwaren. No need to catch her death in Ferelden. Plenty of Templars outside for her to find. And you will find them, won't you? It is their fault."

That she couldn't think, that she wasn't safe, that her home was rubble and her parents were cold and stone-like, her sister, where was her sister because the woman with her face, the impassive features and the monotone voice wasn't her.

"It's their fault," she agreed brightly.

The old man nodded, something like sadness, a little like her father before the Tower took her.

"You will do."

Tahrone didn't remember the trip to Kirkwall. Suddenly, she was the docks, alone and forgotten. No Templars to chase her, oh no. This time she would do the chasing. Keep them from her. Keep them from _him_. It was only fair; after all, it was their fault.

The dark haired man nodded as she passed.

She smiled.


End file.
